


Currents

by rivle



Category: Carol (2015), The Price of Salt - Patricia Highsmith
Genre: Abandoned Work - Unfinished and Discontinued, Alternate Universe - Vampire, F/F, probably
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-04-17
Updated: 2016-04-17
Packaged: 2018-06-02 17:45:14
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,246
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6576259
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/rivle/pseuds/rivle
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Therese is turned under mysterious circumstances.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Currents

**Author's Note:**

> We've been blessed with very gifted writers in this fandom. This effort was inspired by itsfaberrytaboo's Claret in the sense of, well, vampires - but I've taken it in a different direction. Please mind the warning tag. Hope you guys like it!

When Therese wakes, the sun is setting and she is hungry. It is not a typical hunger, more like a yearning.

And she is cold, no longer as a sensation but as a way of being. Her blood is ice in her veins, and her room is a pure stillness like she has never experienced. None of this bothers her. She feels... better than she has ever felt in her life.

When she rises from the bed, she finds the hardwood floors are the same cool temperature as her bare feet. And she is nude, must have shed her clothes before she fell asleep. With a sort of curiosity, she runs her fingers over her own skin, starting from her collarbones, trailing over her small breasts, ribs, protruding hipbones, and flat thighs. Everything is the same, yet different. The physical feeling of touch is somehow muted, but there is a greater awareness of her skin, of the muscles stitched beneath, of the space she occupies.

She walks to the mirror on her dresser, and sees nothing. Not exactly nothing. She sees the wall behind her. This succeeds in startling her, and the shock she feels is the first real feeling she's had since waking except for the hunger. When she touches the mirror with her fingertips, there is no answering reflection. Is she dreaming?

Disturbed, she slips on a robe and makes her way to the window. Fresh air perhaps?

This window sticks. Out of habit, she puts her back into opening it. It provides little of its usual resistance and slams open with a bang that shakes the floor. Street noise comes flooding in. For a moment, she can hear everything, like she is colliding with a dizzying wall of sound, and then it subsides, or she overcomes it, for then she is able to separate. There is a car loudly rolling down her street, the bits of conversation, heels clicking against the sidewalk, two men speaking in the alley next to her building, the scrabble of little mice feet, and so on... She finds herself able to distinguish and place the most minute sounds.

She inhales deeply, and the fresh night time air that fills her lungs makes her realize it is her first breath since she opened her eyes.

Suddenly there is a loud banging at her door. Beyond it, she hears, "Terry! Terry! Terry are you home?"

She goes to open the door. Richard, of course.

"Jesus, where have you been Terry?"

Therese tugs her robe tighter. "Here."

Richard waits a beat, then realizing no other explanation is forthcoming, his frown deepens. He tugs impatiently on his scarf to loosen it, and takes it off. "Okay. Are you going to let me in?"

She moves to one side for him to pass, and shuts the door.

"Aren't you feeling well? You didn't come to work today, everyone was asking about you at Frankenberg's."

"Really?" she asks mildly, preoccupied. He must have sped on his bicycle to get here, and his heart is still racing. She can see the jugular vein on his exposed neck pulsing, she can hear it. The yearning, which had not gone away, only grows stronger. She does not know what for.

"And I didn't hear from you on Sunday either. Where were you?"

"I don't remember," Therese says, and it is true. Her memories are fuzzy... vague...

"Aw jeez, I guess you must be sick," Richard tells her, and hugs her. She breathes him in. It's strange, how the smell of him simultaneously repulses and stirs her. She takes another slow breath, and another. Her mind clouds over, she can't get enough. Richard is rubbing her back, her arms. Ear pressed against his chest, she listens to the wet pumping of his heart with obsessive attention. "You're so cold, Terry."

"I feel fine." Her voice comes out low and scratchy, barely sounding like her own. Her wanting is a dark thing, growing deep and cavernous inside her. She _needs_. "Come to bed, Richard."

Richard pulls back to look at her; for a moment, his face is comical with surprise. She had never been so bold before, had never wanted to be. She watches his expression transforms with eagerness.

"Come," she says again, tugging him by the hand. He follows without resistance now. When they enter the bedroom, she pushes him firmly onto the bed.

"Whoa," he grins, bouncing on the mattress. He quickly shrugs off his coat and tosses it on the floor. His hands and mouth are all over her when she joins him in the bed. Though she wants, she feels no more for his touch than she ever did. In fact, she does not want him to touch her at all. Hard enough to bruise, she pins his hands to his sides and bites roughly at his lips, eliciting a yelp. "Ow Terry!"

She ignores his protests, nipping at his coarse-skinned jaw towards the part his neck that had been singing to her since he came in. She can feel her teeth, her gums, singing in violent anticipation. The rushing of his blood, the stench of his alarm, profoundly thrilling her.

She can wait no longer - she bites him hard, feeling his skin resist and break. He shouts in sudden pain, jerking wildly against her, but somehow she is the stronger and overwhelms him. The taste of iron is in her mouth now, hot and salty. She drinks in delirious ecstasy, lost…

When she comes back into herself, she is warm and Richard is cold beneath her.

Inspecting her own state, she finds herself only detached and satiated. The hunger is gone. She swipes absently at her mouth, fingers coming away stained with sticky red blood. She licks her lips.

Detached though she is, Therese knows something is very wrong.

Beyond the obvious, the Therese that she used to be (who she now realizes is gone) would have been terrified, beside herself. She never loved the boy, she always knew that, but in her own way she had been fond of him. Yet she looks at his prone body now with a clinical eye, simply taking in the marks she inflicted on him. In a way, the sight of him there, bloodless, slack jawed, it pleases her. There are small, open cuts dotting his face, from his mouth to the violently blackening bite on the left of his now pale neck.

On instinct, Therese covers the same spot on her own neck, a forgotten memory tugging at her consciousness. She reaches for it, but it slips away into the fog. She lets it go. Her own skin is smooth and unbroken under her fingertips.

Richard's hand twitches. The movement surprises her. She touches his wrist.

He is alive, but his pulse is thready and weak. His eyes remain closed, his face slack, but she sees now the shallow rise and fall of his chest.

Good, she supposes. She had never been a convincing liar and she wasn't sure how she would have explained his death to the police. She tries to imagine herself getting dragged off to an asylum or locked in a jail cell or sentenced to death for the murder of Richard Semco - but in place of usual feeling, she finds only a yawning hollow.

Therese does, then, feel a small pang at the emptiness. Is this how she would be now, until the end of her time?

For the second time that day, she climbs off the bed. She goes to the shower this time, to clean herself up.

Afterwards, she tosses her robe into the hamper and pulls on a clean nightgown.

She is tired and curls up on the couch, drifting off immediately.

—

Richard wakes up late the next day, groggy and nauseous. In a haze, he stumbles to his feet. All the shades are drawn, and the only light in the apartment is what peeks through the heavy fabric.

Feeling his way to the living room, he can just barely make out Therese sitting on the couch. She looks so small.

"What happened?" he asks with a hoarse voice.

She shrugs. "You weren't feeling well and you passed out. It's midday, Richard, and you should go home."

"I'm not feeling well, I should go home…" He echoes unthinkingly.

As though in a dream, he finds his coat and leaves.

—

The years pass, and Therese learns.

—

"Now comes time for me to bid you adieu, darlings," says Carol as she stands. Her announcement is immediately met with a chorus of protests.

"No, no I truly must - it is a long drive home."

One of her friends helps her into her coat. "Well it was good of you to come. Don't be a stranger."

"I won't, Charles," she promises. She kisses her fingers and waves them to the table, exiting the restaurant.

As Carol approaches her car, her eyes are drawn to a woman - no, a girl, really - standing by the corner. Her posture is is loosely attentive, almost waiting. But for what? What is she doing out here, all by herself? They make eye contact, and for some reason Carol _shivers_. She can't make out the color of her eyes in the night, but they are dark and infinitely inviting, framed in a pretty but somehow unusual face.

Belatedly realizing that she is staring at a stranger, Carol turns and fumbles for her keys. Her martinis must have been stronger than she supposed or perhaps her hands are clumsy from the cold (yes, that must be it), because she drops her purse. Its contents scatter on the sidewalk. Embarrassment crawls up her neck as she bends down. "Of all the damned…"

"Let me," Carol hears. She sees a pair of scuffed sneakers come to a stop near her, as the person crouches down into the line of her vision. Carol knows without having to look, that it's her.

Those quick, long-fingered hands gather her belongings before she can. The girl passes Carol her keys, her checkbook, but she pauses over the small photo of Rindy, gently brushing it off and studying it. "Is this your daughter?"

Her wistful tone touches Carol. "Yes."

"She looks like you," she says, carefully handing over the print. Their fingers brush. "Around the eyes."

"You think so?" Carol asks, pleased. She smooths out her dress as they stand, "Thank you-"

A quick smile passes over the girl's otherwise somber face. "Therese."

"Thank you, Therese." _Therese, not Teresa_ , Carol thinks. It suits her.

"And you?"

"Carol."

"Carol..."

There's something about the quality of Therese's voice, the steady way she's been looking at her, that makes Carol feel like prey. And… _I like it_ , she realizes with surprise. She feels flattered, but that's not all. There's a telltale quickening of her pulse, a warming of her cheeks. When was the last time anyone made her blush? She can't remember. And, remarkably, she realizes she doesn't want to stop talking to this strange girl. She wants to know more.

Before Carol can help herself, she asks, "What do you do, Therese?"

"Besides loiter on street corners in the afternoons?" Therese quips self-effacingly. A shade of some indiscernible emotion momentarily changes her face, but she covers it quickly and says, "Nothing much, mostly. I work evenings at a coffeehouse in Greenwich."

There's a pause.

"Maybe... you should come by sometime," Therese offers hesitantly, and suddenly all the intensity is gone and she seems very girlish and very young. Carol almost hates herself for how charmed she feels, and the smile that she can't quite suppress. Therese's eyes dart down and up, as though clocking Carol's nice attire and doubting herself. Still, she forges ahead, words coming out in a rush, "I mean if you want to. It can be rowdy. But, it's very popular. And everyone is very nice. There's good music. Poetry, too."

"Well if there's good music…" Carol says, and if she sounds a little flirtatious so sue her. She suddenly feels like she can do anything. "Sold. Maybe I will."

"Okay," Therese says, granting Carol another ebullient smile that brings out her dimples. She stands awkwardly for a beat while they grin like fools at each other, before she shifts. "I should go. It's, um, MacDougal and Bleeker. In the basement. Will you remember?"

"MacDougal and Bleeker," Carol affirms.

And then she's left watching the girl leave, holding her keys in one hand and her purse in the other, wondering what the hell just happened.

Therese casts just one shy backwards glance before disappearing into the night.

—

Carol doesn't do anything about it for a few days. She's exhausted with endless paperwork and divorce proceedings. It's wrapping up, and she has lost custody of Rindy, and she is very very tired.

It's one evening in the city - after a particularly long and arduous meeting with Fred, faced with the bleak idea of driving back to New Jersey, to that lonely awful house in the middle of _god damn nowhere_ that Harge still owns - that she thinks _to hell with it all_. She contemplates taking her car but she's heard things about Greenwich and, at the last minute, decides not to chance it.

She hails the first cab she sees. What was it again? "MacDougal and Bleeker please."

"Yes ma'am."

As the car moves, she feels a trickle of self-doubt. What if… Therese wasn't working tonight? If she no longer worked there? If she'd misread the signals?


End file.
